Part 4 (1/2)
A few children scampered past, heading home for supper. The usual group of old women sat outside Jurl's hut, sc.r.a.ping hides and gossiping. Old Erca looked up as he walked by, and, in her penetrating screech, demanded to know if he'd been wrestling with a gorse bush.
”For shame. Scampering around the hills instead of welcoming your father home.”
”Darak'll take his belt to him.”
”More likely Griane. She'll have to mend the tunic.”
”Boys are so hard on their clothes. I could scarcely keep up with my two when they were that age.”
”My Jurl-thank the Maker he's settled down now-but the sc.r.a.pes that rascal used to get into! I still remember that Midsummer . . . oh, he couldn't have been more than ten or eleven . . .”
Mercifully, they lost interest in him, chuckling and nodding over the oft-heard tales of their own children and grandchildren.
He'd have to find a way to get Callie and Faelia out of the hut. It would be bad enough to break the news to his parents without Faelia rolling her eyes and Callie interrupting with a hundred questions.
His footsteps slowed, stopped. He scuffed his big toe in the dirt.
Just get it over with, Keirith.
As he strode toward the hut, he heard his father shouting. When he recognized the Tree-Father's voice, also raised in anger, the wave of nausea made sweat break out on his forehead. He took one step forward, then another, determined to ignore his pattering heart and churning stomach.
A hand lifted the bearskin. The Tree-Father ducked outside. His expression grew even grimmer when he saw him. ”Callum came to my hut to fetch you.”
His parents knew. And because of his stupid, endless delays, they'd had to hear the truth from the Tree-Father.
”Forgive me,” he said. ”I failed you.”
”Talk to them, Keirith.”
Expecting a stern reproof, the sympathy on the shaman's face brought a thick clot to his throat. He swallowed it down as the Tree-Father walked away. All his life, he'd heard the slighting comments about Gortin, how he was a ”good man” but a far cry from Struath. That had only convinced him of their kins.h.i.+p; Keirith, too, knew what it was like to live in the shadow of a great man-the one who was waiting inside for him now.
As he reached for the bearskin, his father shouted, ”Why didn't you just get down on your knees and kiss his a.r.s.e while you were at it?”
”You and your pride! You'd attack Gortin for-”
His mam broke off. Had she seen the bearskin move? Resisting the urge to slink away, Keirith slipped inside and found his father watching him with eyes as cold as storm clouds in winter.
He'd smacked their bottoms a few times when they were little. Occasionally, he raised his voice. But when he went quiet and cold like this, they knew he was really angry.
”I'm sorry.”
His father just stood there, watching and waiting. If he no longer hunted, he still possessed a hunter's patience.
”I was going to tell you.”
”When?”
His mam tugged on his father's arm. ”I think we should sit.”
”When were you going to tell us?”
His father's voice was flint grating on bone. Keirith told himself it was the smell of the stew that made his gorge rise, but he knew it was fear. ”I tried. I did.” G.o.ds, he sounded like a whining child. ”Right after the Tree-Father dismissed me from my apprentices.h.i.+p.”
”d.a.m.n your apprentices.h.i.+p.”
”Darak . . .”
”I'm talking about the other. This . . . power . . . to communicate with the eagle.”
”Oh. That.”
”Aye. That.”
The savagery of those two words made him wince. Perhaps his mam saw; she clutched his father's arm with both hands. ”Enough.”
He yanked his arm free without deigning to look at her. ”How long have you had it?”
He could lie. Tell them only the part about flying with the eagle and hide the rest. But sooner or later his father would realize the truth. ”The wood pigeon,” he whispered.
His father went very still. His mam's gaze darted back and forth between them. ”What wood pigeon?”
For some reason, his father refused to look at her. ”Keirith brought the bird down with his sling. When he went to finish it off, it . . . he said it screamed.”
”Screamed?”
”Aye.”
”When was this?”
His father hesitated. ”Seven years ago.”
”Seven years?” his mam echoed.
”Griane . . .”
”And you never told me?”
”I thought-”
”I had a right to know, Darak!”
”You'd just lost the babe!” In a much softer voice, he added, ”I didn't want to worry you.”
The same day he had heard the wood pigeon scream, he and his father had returned from the forest to discover Ennit waiting for them. Faelia was too young to understand, but his father's stark expression told Keirith something was terribly wrong. He'd waited and waited in Memory-Keeper Sanok's hut until the tension became unbearable. Then he ran to the birthing hut.
He saw his father pacing in the moonlight. Heard his mother's anguished cry, as terrible and shrill as the wood pigeon's. His father caught him up in his arms, held him so tight the breath was squeezed out of him. Then the Grain-Mother came out of the birthing hut and told them the babe was dead.
Ennit tried to stop his father from going inside. That was the first time Keirith had seen that cold rage on his face. He waited with Ennit, listening to his mother's sobs and the low murmur of his father's voice.
Later, after his father had tucked Faelia under her wolfskins, he asked if it was his fault, if the G.o.ds were angry because of what had happened in the forest. His father grabbed his shoulders, the thumbs digging in so hard it made tears come to his eyes, and said his little brother had come into the world too soon. Too small to live, his spirit would fly to the Forever Isles to be reborn in its proper time.